The Nature of Miracles
by Keesha
Summary: An event of the past leaves an agent wondering if it was real or a dream.
1. Entry

The Nature of Miracles

1 - Entry

This wasn't his first venture into this type of scenario and he was pretty sure it wouldn't be his last. He carefully reviewed each calculated step, examined every detail in his mind, move, counter move, action, reaction. He had different paths of egress on which he could embark, depending on what unknown he might come upon. As always, he had an exit strategy, as well as a 'Plan B'.

He intently stared across the dingy side street at his objective; tall, stone, majestic double spires, real evergreen wreathes on the wood paneled front doors. A manger and all its' accompanying pieces on the lawn, behind a fence, with a watchman who wasn't there to keep the sheep in but the thieves out; necessary in this neighborhood. There was even a small, cheap, plastic wreath on the rectory's side entrance. Nice touch. Festive. Cheerful, he supposed.

The west wind whipped around the corner beating on him with its' icy talons. Shivering in his thin sweatshirt, he shuffled his feet and rubbed his frozen hands together in a vain attempt to keep warm. It was unusually cold and definitely unpleasant, even for late December in LA. He was going to have to seriously rethink about where to spend the night as his usual haunts weren't going to cut it on a night like this one. He'd freeze to death by morning. Well, OK that was an exaggeration, but if he didn't find a warm place to bunk down out of this weather, he would be cold and miserable all night, a thought he did not relish.

Quietly hopping up and down in his shadowy hiding place, he got his blood pumping through his veins in anticipation of this mission. He wanted to go now, but patience is a virtue, he reminded himself even as his stomach let out a most plaintive grumble. Boy was he hungry but he knew he had to wait for the right moment or his mission would fail.

He let his gaze shift back momentarily from the side door of the massive church to the double front doors which were now open allowing the passage of the patrons. Dressed in their holiday finest, people entered the church to celebrate Christmas Eve mass. Moms in their neatly pressed skirts, Dad's in their overcoats to combat the wind, little girls with pretty bows and ribbons in their hair, and freshly scrubbed boys either in v-neck sweaters or red neckties, passed through the portal to enter the sanctuary. Most parishioners arrived as the perfect family unit, one mother, one father and two children; sometimes even a full set of Grandparents. Familiar bliss.

Shaking his head, he focused back on the side door to the rectory where another class of people was also entering the church. These folks, however, were not dressed in their Sunday finest but rather in whatever they owned to keep warm. They were not here to celebrate the birth of the babe in the manger but rather to acknowledge the passage of another day of survival on the streets. There were mainly singles entering the rectory, or small groups of adults, but virtually no traditional family units. Occasionally, one found a male and female with a child, but whether they were a family or just thrown together by circumstances, it was hard to tell. Parents was also a relative term as often the 'parent' and the 'child' were hard to tell apart in both age and demeanor. Looking at the people entering the front door of the church, it was easy to see the family groups; looking at the rectory door, it just seemed to be a rash of humanity.

His impatience was starting to spill over with the intensity of the growls of his stomach. Lots of people were entering the side door of the rectory, no lack of business tonight, but what he needed had not arrived yet. Finally, he spotted what he required, two adults each with a slew of kids in tow, approaching the door one after the other, exactly to his specs. He'd blend in well enough. Unobtrusively, he moved from his vantage point across the street to close in on them. As the groups entered the rectory door, he managed to insert himself into the pack of children.

Success.

He skated through the rectory door, one of many, not spotted, not singled out.

Victory was his!


	2. Execution

The warm air of the church's basement caressed him and made him feel good. He unzipped his sweatshirt to enjoy the warmth for as long as it lasted. He kept pace with the two families as they moved across the old stained floor that was paved with industrial tiles that had seen better days. Their target, their nirvana if you will, was a row of tables, covered in plastic holiday tablecloths that held the Mecca that was the church's free Christmas Eve buffet for the down trodden. Though not a study of religion, the boy did embrace the concept of the charity of the church which often kept him fed on the major holidays. It was a free, low risk way to get a meal, if you played your cards right.

The blond teenager made sure he kept up the illusion of belonging to one of the two family-like groups as they twisted their way through the tables and chairs towards the holiday feast. His plan was spot on. The group in the front thought he belonged to the group behind and the group behind thought he belonged to the group up front. Perfect plan, perfectly executed. His "newly" adopted family would get him through this food line without even knowing what a charitable deed they were providing him.

The boy was an orphan, no family of his own and was currently living on the streets having taken a 'vacation' from the foster care system. He knew he would eventually end back up in the system as it was hard, at thirteen, to successfully live on the street if you wanted to stay clean and out of major trouble. But for the moment, he was on a holiday from foster care. A Christmas vacation. Only he wasn't going to Disneyland, but rather reality land where you watched your back 24/7 and trusted no one. Certainly not the happiest place on earth but better than the alternative he supposed.

The foster care system had been his 'family' since he was five years old and normally he could handle it. You learned and adjusted accordingly. He had known some survivors of the system; kids that managed to endure and escape out the other end relatively unscathed. That was his plan, to use the foster system to get through the next few years and then head out on his own to make his mark in the world.

His plans took a slight detour after the last foster home in which they had placed him. It had been beyond his worse wildest nightmare. He wasn't unfamiliar with abuse, mental or physical. Unfortunately it was often part of the package and while not always deliberate, it was usually there in some form. However, in this place, the abuse was deliberate, planned and executed with precision. He considered himself lucky that he had escaped with only minor physical damage. His unlucky foster brother had not escaped at all.

Yes, physically the boy was lucky but mentally, well that was another story. That was why he took to the streets, to assimilate what happened, to deal with it and to repress it in his own manner. His way. If he had stayed in the foster care system, after they learned what had happened in that house, they would have insisted he see a shrink. Been there, done that and sorry Sam but it was not the way he dealt with life. No, he had to get away, clear his own head, mourn his loss, compartmentalize and move on. Like a good soldier.

The food line momentarily halted and he nearly collided with the kid in front of him. He mentally yelled at himself to pay attention to the mission before he blew his one chance at a hot holiday meal. The past was the past. Forget and move on.

Refocusing his efforts on his charade, he picked up a cardboard plate, waxed with a Christmas scene, nice touch, and made his way down the food line. He knew the drill, you held out your plate and some well meaning individual on the other end of a plastic glove would plop the item of choice on your plate, often followed by a smile. As the volunteers ladled heaping spoonfuls of food on his plate, his stomach growled in appreciation. One of the workers laughed at him hearing, his stomachs cries and managed to squeeze an extra helping of stuffing on his already mounded plate. He presented the worker with what later in life would become his characteristic half-grin in appreciation.

'Nice touch,' he thought to himself as he moved on. 'The grin. Have to remember that one. Tomorrow at their private Christmas dinner they would tell their friends and family the story of the starving boy they helped out with that extra spoonful of stuffing. Hey, he did not begrudge them their story. It would make them feel good and he got extra food out of it all was right with the world.'

With his dinner plate piled high in one hand and a slice of pie in the other, he entered into the second phase of his mission. Seating. The teen could not sit with the families he had used as subterfuge to get food because it would be too easy for them to realize he was not theirs and maybe raise the red flag with the workers in the church. No, now he needed a table with one or two single adults to sit at for the second stage of his plan to be successful. Over towards the back corner he spotted a table he thought might have the right mix. It had five adults at it silently chowing down on their food. He slipped into an empty chair next to one of the adults, leaving an empty chair to his left. He hoped his proximity to the single man would give the impression of belonging. While the guy did not smell that great and the boy would have rather moved his chair further away, not closer, one often had to make sacrifices to survive, or eat a hot meal undisturbed. When he sat down, he simply said "Mom's on her way," to no one in particular. The guy next to him gave him a funny look but quickly went back to his meal. The rest of the folks at the table didn't even look up from their food and the boy congratulated himself on picking the right table to enjoy his feast. He took a cup from the middle of the table and pored himself a glass of water before chowing down in earnest.

About a quarter of the way though his meal, the boy glanced up as four of the five occupants departed. That left him and his 'parent' as the soul occupants of the table. Wish as he might, no one else joined them and soon his 'parent' left too leaving the table empty, except for him.

'Rats,' the teen thought. 'An isolated target.' With more than half his food still to eat, he had no thoughts of leaving yet. This was his first meal in days and probably his last for days to come. He was not going to abandon his plate. No man left behind. He thought about taking his plate and trying to leave, sort of like take-out, but the exit door had a Priest by it who personally talked to everyone as they left. No getting the food past him. Well, he had "plan B" to fall back on so he tucked his head and continued to chow down on his meal alone at his table.

It did not take long for the inevitable to happen. A lone boy sitting at a table, alone soon attracted the attention of the church volunteers as he knew it would. His sixth sense told him someone was approaching the table but he deliberately kept his head down, focusing on eating his meal and being, he hoped, unnoticeable. Maybe they would pass on by. However, no such luck.

"Excuse me young man," an odd voice rang out across the floor.

The enemy was upon him.


	3. Plan B

He still kept his head down in hopes the owner of the scratchy voice might give up and walk away. 'Yeah right,' he thought. But hey, it was Christmas Eve, season of miracles and all. He tried valiantly to keep eating and ignore the presence. However, try as he might he could not ignore the woman staring intently at him as if she could see into his soul. He found himself involuntarily raising his blue eyes to meet hers. A warm smile spread across her face and she held up a pitcher.

"Can I offer you some cider? Fresh. Donated by an orchard out in the valley. Christmas spirit and all that. Makes them feel, I don't know, redeemed I suppose," she concluded as she plopped into an empty chair two seats over from him. "Phew, feels good to sit for a minute. Been a popular place tonight. "

If he had thought she was short standing, sitting down did not help the matter. The uncharitable thought that she rather looked like a Christmas elf crept through his mind. Short hair, oversized glasses, the boy was tempted to peek under the table and check out the shoes to see if the ends of her footwear curled upwards. Though she wasn't old by any means, she seemed to ooze wisdom about her person. And the voice. Distinctive to say the least. She shook the pitcher again. "Cider?"

"No. Ah thanks," he added as he prepared to execute 'Plan B'.

Her eyes roamed the empty table. He noted their path and got ready. It was coming, he knew it. Game on.

"Are you here alone?" she inquired gently.

Bingo. Target acquired. Deploy decoys.

The boy placed his fork down and looked her straight in the eye with his baby blues. "No. Well not really. I'm kind of waiting for my Mom."

"Uh-huh," she acknowledge noncommittally.

For effect and to help him keep an even pace, he picked up his fork and between mouthfuls, spun his tale. "My Mom. We live a few blocks over. On Locust. We rent a few rooms in a house, all we can afford," he said, down casting his eyes and looking pitifully.

Pace. Chew, chew, and swallow. "Dad," he snorted, "Long gone. Alive, dead who knows, who cares. Just Mom and me. But we do OK," he said raising his eyes to meet hers again and shaking his head in a defiantly positive way. 'We look out for each other. Mom. Me." The teen got the nod of encouragement he expected from the lady. Good. On track, target deflected.

Dropping his head again, he went back to eating and spinning his tale. "Mom works in the all night drugstore, over on Elm," he continued, gesturing with his fork in a randomly northerly direction. "Best she can get in these times is what she says. They take turns on the night shift," he glanced up again at his table partner, "Worries me," he added seriously. "Bad things happen on the night shift. Robberies. I worry about her," he sighed and went back to his food. Quiet for a few beats. Nice effect. "She drew short straw and got stuck working tonight. But hey, the bright side is we get to spend part of Christmas Day together, well… for what it is worth," he added with a rueful grin. "Like no presents or anything but at least we're together right?"

The woman nodded meaningfully. The teen inwardly grinned. This lady was putty in his hands.

"So any rate, she and I came here to eat dinner. But she had to leave to go to work and left me here to finish up." The boy ducked his head again this time assuming the mask of embarrassment, even letting a little color rise into his cheeks. "But I do have a confession to make, since we are in a church and all."

"Oh, Heaven forbid," the woman chuckled. "I'm no priest and I am pretty sure I am closer to the sinner then Saint mark on the cosmic balance beam. You need not confess anything to me."

"Well, you seem nice, volunteering and all, being in a church on Christmas Eve, I feel I gotta," the teen rambled on. "The real reason I am still here at the table is I snuck back into the line and got seconds. I mean I know it was probably wrong but I was still so hungry and there seemed like plenty of food and…" the boy let his voice fade off as he made abstract patterns with his fork in the remains of the mashed potatoes on his plate. Nice touch. Masterful. He wondered if his performance might earn him a second slice of pie.

The woman looked at him curiously. "I see," was all she said. The two of them sat in silence at the table for a few minutes. The boy made sure to initiate eye contact once and awhile but still looking away for a fraction of a second to display a little "guilt" about the second helping of food.

Finally, it was she who broke the silence. "I am sure your second helping will not leave any other individual without substance tonight. As you said," she replied eyes sweeping the buffet line, "there seems to be plenty for all. " She shifted back to stare at him. "Sorry your mother had to, ah, run off to work leaving you alone."

Boy, when she trained those eyes on you it felt like incoming, heat seeking missiles. He hesitated a moment, trying to read her last comment. That brief pause she had thrown in, was he losing her? Maybe he'd better forget about enhancing his performance for a second slice of pie and get the hell out of Dodge instead. Yes, exiting was the key now.

"It's OK. We do the best we can do," he replied philosophically.


	4. Exodus

She too was on a mission this night and she decided it was time to rock the boat a bit. She addressed the boy bluntly. "It could be worse you know. You could be an orphan. At least you have a mother." She casually sat back to gauge his reaction to that comment. She had to admit, she was impressed. He gave little away even though she knew her comment had rattled him and hit home.

"Yeah, right," he said perhaps a bit too cheerfully. "Got my Mom." He shoveled the last mouthful of pie in his mouth and rose from the table. "Well I gotta run. Mom really doesn't like me on the streets too late at night. Kind of dangerous, this neighborhood."

"Indeed," the woman said rising and moving towards him. "Is there, perhaps, anything I can do for you? Not to brag but I do know some people. I can get you …"

The boy nearly stumbled over his chair trying to move away from the table. Though he tried his best to marshal his features, she, being an experienced operator, knew where to look, his eyes, and in them she could see the panic raising.

'The ability to disguise that will come with time and experience,' she thought to herself. If her gut feeling was correct and it usually was, he would one day an outstanding operative for whatever agency he joined. However, that was years away, if it actually ever came to fruition. In the here and now, she knew she had just pushed him too hard and he was going to run. He wasn't ready to come in yet, off the streets, and he wasn't ready to accept outside help.

"No, I really have to go," he reemphasized moving away from her.

He turned his back and started towards the door when he heard her softly say, "I understand, Mr. Callen. Time. And Merry Christmas."

His body involuntarily shuddered hearing her words and he nearly turned around to stare at her. How had she known his name?He fought the urge to turn around and continued heading for the exit in what he hoped was a quick but casual departure. He felt like there was a target on his back and he found himself trembling all over.

When he got to the exit he was forced to wait in line to shake hands with the Priest. The shivering would not abate and the Priest noted it as they shook hands. "Zip up your coat my son. You seem to be cold," he said holding the boy's hand in a firm handshake.

"Good idea, sir," the teen answered trying to extract his hand.

The Priest looked over the boy's left shoulder at the woman across the room who gave a small nod. The Priest released the boy's hand without further ado, wishing him a Blessed Holiday.

The boy mumbled thanks and escaped into the frosty air. Once outside the door and smelling the air of freedom, the boy allowed himself a quick look back into the Church's basement, to the location where he had last seen the lady. There was no one there.

He resolutely turned his back on the Church and walked away shaking his head. Maybe it was some sort of hallucination brought on by the blows to the head he had received two nights ago at his foster home. Muttering to himself the boy disappeared into the night to seek a place to sleep.

The woman popped up behind the priest, startling him. "Hetty, you do move in a most sneaky and unladylike manner. " The woman gave him an innocent "who me" grin and chuckled. The two watched silently as the teenager disappear into the night.

"I pushed him too hard. He's not ready yet, John. Bring him in now and we may lose it all. Oh but he is going to be good one day. The story he laid on me, amazingly crafted for a boy his age. The sincerity. The poise. The confidence. "

"You mean he is a good liar," the Priest remarked.

"Aren't we all? Now if he only stays alive long enough to realize that potential, what a legend we will have."


	5. Debrief

Callen woke groggily from his dream? Repressed memory? Nightmare? As he scanned the room around him he saw Hetty, sitting in a nearby chair. Ever present was a cup of steaming tea.

"I thought you had given up couches now that you have your own place, Mr. Callen," she said handing over the cup.

Setting it down on side table he stretched and ran a hand thru his tousled crew cut. Grinning ruefully, which had become an unconscious trademark, he said, "Sorry Hetty. It just kind of happened. Tough day."

"Indeed." She looked into his eyes which still held the merest hint of confusion brought on by his sleep. "Bad dream?" she inquired.

Callen felt, as he often did, that Hetty was some sort of witch that could see into his soul. "What makes you say that," he countered, moving on the offense trying to get the upper hand. He casually picked up the tea and took a sip.

Hetty stared at him with those eyes boring into his soul and it was all that he could do to stop the tea cup from rattling on the saucer. She was unnerving.

"Uh-huh. Well now that you are up, would you like to accompany me, Agent Deeks and Agent Blythe to the soup kitchen? We are going to assist in the serving of food to the less fortunate. A bit of charity work on Christmas Eve. Always makes me feel good. I have been doing it for decades when I have the opportunity."

Callen didn't think he let his jaw drop but he definitely had to place the tea cup back on the table before he dropped it. He was unable to stop a slight look of disbelief from crossing his face. Of course, Hetty zeroed in on it.

"This surprises you? Surely you see me as a charitable person? Besides, you can meet such interesting people at these events," she added innocently.

Callen nodded slowly, still trying to sort out the fragments in his mind. Dream? Memory? Had he really met Hetty years ago when he was a teen? After that Christmas Eve in the soup kitchen, Callen had dismissed the whole incident as a hallucination brought on by the beating his foster father had given him two days earlier. The beating that should have killed him and would have had his foster brother not saved him and in doing so lost his own life. The reason Callen had been on the streets those long years ago. The guilt that he still carried around with him to this day.

That Christmas had been the catalyst for a major turning point in his life. The point where he got his act straightened out and moved in a positive direction towards his future. He spent a few months on the street before heading back into the foster system to finish his schooling. He stayed out of trouble as best as he was able and as soon as he was eligible, he joined the Navy. He learned to shut the world out, adopt a don't care attitude about his past, live in the present, and keep everyone at arm's lengthen. During his time on the streets he developed 'Callen's Coping Method', what he still employed today much to Nate's chagrin.

To speculate, for a moment, he might have met Hetty more than 25 years ago, on a random Christmas Eve, in a church, was mind blowing and too much coincidence for a man with his belief system. No, it had to be a dream. That was the only logical conclusion he could reach.

"I understand, Mr. Callen. Time. And Merry Christmas," she said repeating the words of his dream as she walked off into the night leaving him wondering about the nature of miracles.


End file.
